


Without a Roof Over My Head

by Mssmithlove



Series: Happiness Awaits [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Homeless John, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Making Up, Military John, Pining Sherlock, Young Break-Up, mild violence, see notes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 13:17:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3897772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mssmithlove/pseuds/Mssmithlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years after sending John off to the army, Sherlock finds him again in the worst way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without a Roof Over My Head

**Author's Note:**

  * For [superblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/superblue/gifts).



> Please note: There is descriptions of injuries and some mild violence toward the end of this story. If this is a trigger for you, please proceed with caution!
> 
> The absolutely wonderful SuperBlue sent this delightful prompt:
> 
>  _I have a serious obsession (I wouldn’t necessarily call it a kink) with homeless!John. So whenever you could possibly get around to it, I would love a story with that and maybe some hurt!John_  
> 
> So this is the result. Please let me know your thoughts!

"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you even listening to me?"

Sighing as dramatically as he could manage, kicking at the raised cement on the platform of the train station, Sherlock rolled his eyes, adjusting his phone against his ear.

"Yes, Mycroft," he huffed, "I heard all about the delicious cake mummy made for you that you devoured in a single bite."

The indignant huff that followed the comment was all he needed for a wave of smug triumph to wash over him.

"As I was saying," Mycroft started again, his sibling never one to give up without a fight, "Mummy is thrilled that you'll be home for the long weekend. She's dying to hear all about London, seeing as you never call to tell her. Don't miss your train."

"Yes, because I haven't been in London for almost ten years or anything," Sherlock mumbled purposefully, enjoying any and all attempts at irritating his insufferable brother. "I'll do my best to make it."

"I can hear the tracks rattling through the phone, Sherlock," Mycroft replied smugly.

Sherlock immediately whirled around, cupping the receiver with his hand and hurrying back toward the ticketing area, already knowing his efforts would prove worthless. "You can't hear anything," Sherlock hissed, ducking his way through the crowd and around to a side isle far less occupied. He slipped just behind a barrier wall, the steady thrum of people passing by steady under his feet but the noise of chatter and trains entering and exiting far less quieter.

"Oh for godsake, go back to where you were or you  _will_  miss your train," Mycroft barked over the line.

"I'm just getting to the station now," Sherlock muttered innocently, "I sure hope I can make it through the crowds. It's rather busy in here."

"Sherlock, I swear, if you miss that bloody train, I will not cover for you with mummy," his brother hissed into the phone.

Sherlock smirked, feeling rather accomplished for getting Mycroft's voice to that high, panicked range he'd never admit he had. "Oh do relax, brother mine, I think-"

A hand came down on his shoulder and Sherlock startled into silence, whipping around at the contact, coming face to face with Bill Wiggins' big, watery eyes staring at him. "Mister Holmes?"

Sherlock relaxed immediately, heart falling from his throat back to its rightful place in his chest. "Christ, you scared me Billy," he breathed to his main contact in his homeless network. In the years he'd spent in London, Sherlock had become quite the consulting detective he'd always wanted to be, having found the homeless to be quite useful on an early case he'd worked along side the police and set about building a network, paying good money and food for information. Bill Wiggins was his primary contact, and the most well funded person on his payroll, receiving burner phones and extra cash each month to keep the steady flow of information coming to Sherlock at all times. Bill had proven to be quite an asset, and Sherlock had become rather fond of him.

"Sorry," Bill murmured, fidgeting where he stood, a note of panic in his voice. "I was just about to call you-"

"Sherlock? Who are you talking to? Who is Billy? Please, for the love of god, please tell me you aren't bringing someone home with you. Mummy will have a proper fit," Mycroft's annoying voice came filtering through the tiny speaker in his ear.

Sherlock rolled his eyes without a response and tipped the receiver away from his mouth. "What is it?" he asked Bill softly, nodding to the mobile pointedly in his hand and raising a finger to his lips.

Looking anxious and unsure, Bill opened and closed his mouth twice before stumbling out an, "Uh- just-" then taking a step back and waving his hand, beckoning Sherlock to follow.

"Sherlock?" He could just barely hear his brother on the other end. "Sherlock, you there?"

"Hang on," he hissed, hurrying along behind Bill, who had taken off to the back area of the station, ducking behind a cement pillar and into a crevice under the stairs. Sherlock followed, finding the area to be quite small and dark, the sounds of the station slowly dulling the further in he went. It would be an excellent place for a homeless person to sleep. Or shoot up. Or beat one another to a pulp.

Which, according to Bill, had been a steadily increasing issue. Drugs, alcohol, money, anything that could be used as currency was fought over, anything that could be useful to survive was coveted, but lately there had been rumors that something more was going on. Something more violent then the every day street fight. It was a very real fear most of the community had, and Sherlock had done his best to help, getting his police connections involved in investigating, and doing his part to ensure safety by keeping his presence mostly unknown, not wanting to create an unsafe environment for those who helped him. Outsiders weren't trusted, and those who chose to associate with them were seen as traitors. Sherlock did his best to respect that at all times.

Taking a step further into the dark. Sherlock fell silent, listening for Bill's foot steps which had seemed to cease, but had been replaced with a soft moan. Sherlock's stomach swooped in panic as he glared into the dark crevice, trying unsuccessfully to see where the sound had come from.

Another low, almost inaudible groan came from within, followed by, "Over here Mister Holmes," Bill's voice filtering through the darkness.

"Sherlock, I swear to God-" the tinny voice of his brother came through the speaker hovering near his ear but Sherlock was no longer listening. Pulling free the flashlight he'd taken to carrying with him in case an impromptu investigation happened, he crept into the darkness, following the sounds coming within.

Another muffled groan came, a bit louder as he moved toward it, a nasty sort of anticipation thrumming low in his belly, watching the light dance across the concrete walls and floors of the dirty back alley of the train station. The small glowing circle roamed over every filthy nook and crack as Sherlock delved further in, faintly hearing a tinny screech coming from the mobile clutched in his hand now hanging down at his side.

As another moan elicited itself from the darkness, Sherlock's flashlight fell first to Bill's face, following the tilt of Bill's head, down his outstretched arm and pointer finger and onto a small figure curled in on itself a few meters away. The figure wore what used to be a white shirt, now tinted a faint brown, dark maroon stains blotted at the collar, jeans tattered and ripped with multiple holes.

Homeless.

Sherlock didn't even think twice. He knelt down near the figure which was twitching and groaning, head lulling slightly.

"I came up just as they were walking out," Billy said nervously from the corner. "Two big guys just pummeled the shite out of him. Dunno 'bout what but it ain't pretty. This is like the third time I've seen something like this in the last month."

Sherlock glanced over the body's rolling frame, lying just on its side. The short hair would indicate a male but Sherlock wouldn't be sure until he was able to see the face. It was a good sign the person was making noise and moving a bit. Hopefully no broken bones but a serious concussion was all too possible.

"SHERLOCK!" Mycroft's voice screeched through the mobile and Sherlock snapped it back to his ear.

"Someone is hurt in the back of the train station," Sherlock bit back viciously, "So if you'd be so kind as to have some patience while I sort this out, that would be oh so helpful."

"Christ almighty," Mycroft grumbled. "Call an ambulance if it's that bad."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. There wouldn't be any calling until he assessed the situation further. He'd been cultivating a network, spending time and money, investing in trust and promises of information. These people were his responsibility now, his to worry about and take care of. The Hospitals couldn't afford to give them proper care anyway even if he did call an ambulance. Not unless strings were pulled or favors made, which Sherlock was currently running short on, although the fact that his big brother had just been promoted to a rather substantial position in the British government could prove to negate his need for favors altogether.

That thought was already racing through his head, which hospital he'd need to take this injured body to, which doctor would they need to see in order for it to be comp'd. He was just about to say as such to his prat of an older brother over his mobile when the head of the body rolled back, hair matted with drying blood, the black and blue face of a battered young man turning toward him, eyes closed, blonde hair almost completely discolored. His lips were cracked and bloodied, parted in a moan, his left eye already swelling extensively, matching the other smaller welts along his face.

He was almost unidentifiable. Almost injured enough for there to be a slight chance of not being who Sherlock feared.

But Sherlock would recognize this man anywhere. Even covered in angry marks like these, even after  _years_ , Sherlock knew exactly who he was.

"Mycroft," he murmured into the phone, gripping the device tightly in his hand as his entire body threatened to give out. "M-Mycroft."

"Sherlock?" his brother's voice jumped up an octave, concern evident in the tone, alarmed by Sherlock's soft stuttering. "Sherlock, what's going on?"

"It's John," he whispered, lips shaking over the name he hadn't spoken in years. "It... it's John Watson."

Mycroft's breath hitched sharply in the phone.

Sherlock closed his eyes, unable to look at the bruised man laying beneath him any longer. Things he'd locked away long ago, memories, reminders he'd sealed in a room in his mind were suddenly seeping through from the crack under the door, circling his throat and threatening to choke him with the weight of it all. He swallowed around a lump, his eyes stinging with unshed tears, entire frame trembling.

"It's John," he repeated in a rush of breath, unable to stop repeating it, unable to separate his thoughts.

It took about eight seconds of silence before Mycroft's reassuring words came through the speaker. "I'm sending a team. Stay where you are."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Pacing back and forth furiously, Sherlock's hands were sweating together where they were clasped behind his back. He'd called Lestrade to inform him about the attack, adding it to the list. He'd drank a cup of coffee. He'd called Mycroft six times. Waiting had never been his forte and now sitting here waiting to hear if his... if John was going to be okay was torture.

Christ, he didn't even know what John was to him anymore. His friend? His acquaintance?

He hated so much that he didn't know.

It had been ten years. Ten miserable years since John Watson had stood on the platform of the train station, smiled at Sherlock, kissed his lips and told him he'd see him soon. It was complete crap of course, seeing as they had absolutely no idea when they'd see each other again. Sherlock was going off to uni to start his degree and John was going off to the army. They'd agreed they would write, and speak when John was able, but they didn't agree to much more. No visits. No long distance relationships. No long-term plans. No waiting for each other.

Of course, Sherlock  _had_ been waiting. He knew it would be a long time. He knew the letters would dry up and the calls would stop and the romance of distance would only last a short while, but Sherlock knew long ago that one day John Watson would be his partner. After the army and after uni and after everything, John would come back to him and start a life.

One day, Sherlock would muse in his more private moments. One day, John would come back.

It had been ten long years and Sherlock had long since stopped hearing from John. No letters, no phone calls. He'd expected it. He'd prepared for it. It was fine. It was all fine. Because one day, whether it be in a year or twenty, John would be home. John would call or send a letter or show up and things would be right again. John wouldn't die in war. John wouldn't be injured. John would just be John. Sherlock's John. Healthy and happy and ready to start their life together.

Christ, he'd been naive. The most naive he'd ever been about anything.

The heavy and only getting heavier gate of his older brother brought him back from memory lane, swinging around to find Mycroft sauntering toward him.

"Where the hell have you been?" Sherlock demanded furiously, glancing at the clock and ignoring the fact that it had only been about two hours since he'd last spoken to his brother.

"Making my way here, obviously," Mycroft replied airily. "How are you?"

Ignoring the question entirely, Sherlock moved on to questions of his own. "Why didn't you tell me? About John? You knew, didn't you?"

"I didn't know," Mycroft retorted coolly. "I really didn't, Sherlock. I've only just gained access and manpower for information like this, to the military and their personnel, both discharged and otherwise. I would have looked into John's whereabouts if anything seemed amiss. Really, I would have Sherlock. I hope you know that."

Having none of it, anger only heightening, Sherlock glared as hard as he could, because the rage he felt at himself needed to be dispelled somewhere else. Somewhere he didn't carry the burden of it. Somewhere he could harness it and not let it cripple him. "You could have figured it out," Sherlock bit back. "You could have found him."

"I didn't even know he was missing," Mycroft replied with an eyebrow raise. "And neither did you so you can stop it with the accusations."

"Fuck off," Sherlock spat, "you should have known. You should have figured it out and told me and  _fixed this_."

"Well, there's nothing for it now," Mycroft replied. "I know where he is now and that's what matters."

"That does me no good seeing as that's information I already have," Sherlock muttered, turning to go back to John's room.

"He's not there," Mycroft called.

Sherlock froze for a moment before turning on his brother. "Excuse me?"

"He left when he woke. Snuck out the back. Right under your nose."

Sherlock's eyes widened, running back through his memory to recall where he'd gone besides into his own head to give John a chance to sneak out.

"Relax," Mycroft soothed, "He's alright. Only minor bruising, no internal bleeding or broken bones. And I know where he is."

"Where?" Sherlock snapped hastily. "Tell me."

"There is a car waiting downstairs to take you to the location."

Without responding, Sherlock took off toward the stairs, mind already moving to what dark hole he may find John in, insides churning at the thought.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft called just as he took a single step down the stairs. He whipped around with a glare. Mycroft sighed. "I'm sorry. About John. If I had known-"

Sherlock didn't wait for him to finish before turning to hurry down the steps. His sentiment was useless anyway. He'd never be as sorry as Sherlock was. Not ever.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Kicking at a rusty can that lay sharp and exposed just near the dirty mattress, Sherlock hummed under his breath, forcing himself not to react. Forcing himself to take emotion out of it. "Nice place," he muttered, even as his stomach rolled tellingly.

This is where John lived. Where he _lived_. Out in the cold. Alone. All alone. The happiest, nicest, best person Sherlock had ever known lived here. In this dark, dirty, smelly place, all by himself, just barely surviving day by day, having no idea where his next meal would come from or if this space would even be safe when he came back.

Years after losing his partner to war, Sherlock wobbled on his feet at the weight of it all, knees shaking, begging for him to fall apart right there, let miserable, horrible tears fall down his cheeks. He'd missed this. He'd missed John being bloody  _homeless_.

"What are you doing here?" A sharp, angry voice echoed down the alleyway, words bouncing off the walls and rattling against the edges. Sherlock closed his eyes, anticipating the bristled bulldog that was angry John Watson, settling his features into cool indifference.

Sherlock was taking a gamble. Really, he had no idea what ten-years-later John Watson was like. His John had been giggly and smiley and happy, but he'd also been hardheaded and never one to ask for help. They'd had several fights during secondary school about John needing tutoring for a few classes, Sherlock offering to help for free, while John insisted he pay him. Pay his own boyfriend to tutor him. It was absurd, and just a silly little domestic back then, but it spoke volumes about who John was and who John never wanted to be. He was his own man, stubborn as hell, never accepting 'charity' as he put it of any kind.

Growing up in a home with little income could easily make someone like that, which is where John had come from.

When they were younger, Sherlock had appreciated this trait in John. Now, he found it unbelievably infuriating. It made him sick to think one character flaw of John's may have been exactly what started the spiral to ending in a situation like this.

There was no way in hell Sherlock was leaving him here. No way he could walk away, leave John to this dank place, never knowing if he survived the night. Absolutely not.

He'd come here with a plan. An ugly, nasty plan, but one if played right would get John out of this alley and back to Sherlock's flat at least for the night. Then he could sort it out from there. But for now, this would have to do.

"Admiring your home," Sherlock replied airily as he turned, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, features set to unreadable.

Which almost all fell apart at the sight of John Watson. Twenty-eight-year-old John Watson looked so different from eighteen-year-old John Watson. Sherlock hadn't allowed himself to recognize all the differences while he lay in hospital, but now... now he couldn't ignore them. Now they stood out so obviously, so painfully, Sherlock forced himself to commit every single one to memory.

Once stocky and brawny and compact but fit, John now stood slender and thin. Too thin. Like his body had fed off his young muscles to keep itself alive and was now meekly nibbling away on his skin and bones. His swollen face was the only section of his body that resembled the old John, with the exception of the ugly colors it was taking on. The puffy bruises pushed his skin out, taking on the roundness his cheeks used to hold, minus the healthy, pleasant glow Sherlock used to always treasure. When they were younger, Sherlock had always thought of John as cherub-like, pink-cheeked and smiling, always so cheerful and full of laughter.

It ached to see him this way now. See him so utterly battered, looking on the verge of shattering with every breath. So unlike the John Watson Sherlock had once pictured spending his life with.

John was staring at him in a mix of complete shock and bubbling furry, small fists clenched at his sides, body looking so frail and broken and yet so fiercely stubborn and defiant, drawing himself up to his full height and glaring hard. Sherlock squeezed his own hands into fists within his pockets, the only outward reaction to John's appearance he would allow, and fixed John was with a skeptical eyebrow.

He'd have to work this perfectly to get John to agree.

"Go home, Sherlock," John growled.

"So you got back from... was it Afghanistan or Iraq? Doesn't matter, point is that you got back and what? Didn't bother to call me? Let me know you were  _alive_? Let me know you were  _home_?"

This had to be about Sherlock. About what John had done to Sherlock. About poor Sherlock. John would never accept if he thought Sherlock was doing this out of pity. Out of concern. None of those words meant shit to John when directed at him.

John bristled. "You don't belong here."

Sherlock forced a condescending single bark of a laugh. "And you do?"

John's barely-there muscles shifted under his tattered, blood stained shirt, body tightening in on itself against Sherlock's words.

"Fuck off," John bit back, rooted to his spot just inside the alley.

"You're right," Sherlock shot back, "I suppose my boyfriend leaving me behind for war and then not bothering to call when he got back for all of _this_  is  _completely_  understandable."

He glanced around to emphasize the point, every sarcastic word tasting bitter on his tongue. He hated the way John's mouth dropped open. He hated his own words. He hated himself.

"Of _course_  you'd make this about you," John grumbled, scrubbing a hand down his face, abandoning the move halfway down and wincing in pain. "Jesus Christ."

"Well it's true," Sherlock replied petulantly, aching in places he didn't even know he had to go to the man he still loved to this day and pull him to his chest, cradle his hurt face in his hands and kiss the pain away. "You just took off without so much as a 'See ya 'round' and I have to say, it clearly has paid off, John. I mean just look at you  _thriving_. Clearly you never needed me."

It was a low blow. It was all low. The lowest thing Sherlock had ever done. The worst words Sherlock had ever spoken. The last thing he wanted John to feel was guilt for being in this situation, a situation for the life of him Sherlock didn't bloody understand, but he had to do this. He had to. John was far too proud to accept help or anything without being guilted into it.

But purposefully hurting John was never something Sherlock would for a greater good, it still hurt like hell. Especially as John's black and blue face turn a shade darker and tinted red.

"You're right," John seethed, now-dull blue eyes blazing with rage. "I never needed you."

It was a fair response to Sherlock's blows but it still stung all the same. "Good to know," he responded coolly. "I suppose I should just faff off now, yeah? Leave you to your world where you don't care about me at all and-"

"Jesus, it's been  _years_ , Sherlock!" John railed, throwing his hands in the air. "Not  _everything_  revolves around you. Get over it already."

"Oh sure, let me just 'get over it'," Sherlock muttered. God, this hurt. This conversation hurt. It hurt to be so selfish with John. It hurt to use truths to manipulate John. It hurt to hurt John. "Let me just get over my best - my  _only_  - friend leaving me behind, kicking me to the curb like a piece of garbage when I bloody thought I was more important to you then-"

"Don't," John bit back sharply. "Don't, Sherlock. I'm serious."

"Yeah, alright," Sherlock replied with a sigh in feigned resignation. "I'd better be off. It's freezing out here." He shivered violently with little effort. It really was bitterly cold and only getting colder. "Wouldn't want that fire going to waste in my flat."

John's eyes flashed at the word but he stayed silent.

Sherlock was sure he'd already hated himself, but as he continued, his hatred only slid deeper.

"My landlady makes extraordinary chocolate biscuits," Sherlock continued, glancing at his nail beds as he spoke as casually as he could. "I'm certain they're still warm at this time of night."

"I know what you're doing," John growled. "It won't work."

"Mm," Sherlock replied, stepping around John's small, barely clothed figure, hating this stupid game they had to play, but knowing all too well if they didn't, John would be staying here simply out of spite if Sherlock said one wrong thing, one misstep, one hint that he felt at all sorry of John. "I'll leave you to it. I'm starved, anyway. Those biscuits aren't going to eat themselves."

John exhaled hard through his nose, doing his best to clamp down on his impending rage.

"You could make it right, you know," Sherlock murmured as he drew up to John's side. "You could just... just have dinner with me. Tonight. Just come back to my flat, have a shower and have dinner. That's all I'm asking."

This was it. This was the part that would hurt the most. This was the most evil thing he'd ever say. "It's the least you could do after what you did to me."

He knew he was playing a dangerous game. A  _very_  dangerous game. One wrong step and he could lose John all over again.

John stayed silent, refusing to meet Sherlock's eyes.

They stood in silence for a long moment, listening to each other breathe, both waiting. Sherlock watched the side of John's face, seeing his jaw clench, from anger or to keep his teeth from chattering in the cold, Sherlock would never know, but it was clear John Watson had had enough.

Sherlock took a heavy step forward, the act of walking away and making John stay in this place alone physically painful. He was hoping this would do it. Hoping it would be enough. Hoping he had been cruel enough.

He dragged himself down the alleyway, ignoring the trash bins and rotting food and everything else that made this place uninhabitable, ignoring that the cold tonight could kill John easily without a coat, ignoring how it ached to think he had him back and now had to walk away again.

He tried to slow his steps, tried to prolong the time John had to decide, tried to wait, but he couldn't be obvious about it or this whole thing could fall apart. He sucked in a harsh breath, just narrowly avoiding coughing around the freezing air in his throat, and waited. Waited with every step away.

"Fuck - alright."

Sherlock froze where he stood, not wanting to seem too gleeful, the warming in his blood despite the cold the only thing giving him away. He turned slowly on the spot, chewing at his bottom lip as though still hurt.

"Just dinner," John stabbed a finger in his direction.

Sherlock raised a defiant eyebrow. "You smell terrible, John," he replied flippantly. "I will make dinner while you shower."

Blue eyes narrowed at him and Sherlock had a brief moment of panic that he may have gone too far, before John huffed. "Fine," he mumbled.

"I haven't forgiven you, yet," Sherlock said hurriedly, taking a small step back, forcing his not-so-dormant selfish nature out of his mouth. "You really hurt me, John."

"Oh my  _god_ , you're _still_  a manipulative bastard," John groaned, narrowly missing bumping Sherlock's sharp shoulder with his own now-boney one as he stalked past him.

Sherlock resisted the urge to grin and instead nodded once, spinning on his heel toward the car still waiting at the curb.

 

 

* * *

 

 

As soon as the shower flipped on, Sherlock let himself fall against the counter, shoulders slumping, entire weight falling to the countertop. He sucked in a harsh breath, gripping shaky fingers against the ledge, every part of him begging to collapse, fall to pieces right here and now, crawl to the loo and climb into the shower with his broken friend and hold him, stroke his hair and beg him to stay.

John had been silent on the way to Baker Street, arms crossed tightly over his chest, stench potent in the small space of the backseat, eyes trained on the passing street out his window. Sherlock had sat slumped beside him, emanating the air of an offended child, pouting and sighing and glaring. It was probably a rather unimpressive show, seeing as Sherlock's insides were twisting with anxiety, already anticipating how on earth he was going to get John to stay. To move in. To not go back to a life on the streets.

He choked out a sob over the sink, the emotion in his chest weighing heavily on his lungs. John Watson,  _his_  John Watson, his first and only love had been living only miles away from him for god knows how long, shivering in the cold, working hard to survive day by day, barely living, no roof over his head, fucking  _homeless_. And Sherlock hadn't known. For all the time he spent on the streets, all the time he spent cultivating his network, he had missed this. Always something, he'd missed  _this_.

He picked himself up from the countertop and made his way to the fridge, having absolutely no idea what he'd make for dinner. He didn't make dinner. He barely ate as it was. But that wouldn't do now. Absolutely not. He had to have food. For John. John's thinning body needed sustenance and nutrients and something that wasn't table scraps or leftovers.

"Mrs. Hudson!" He suddenly yelled, still inside the kitchen, knowing full well she couldn't hear him, but simply not caring. This was urgent. He flew out of the apartment, down the steps, terrified John would flee if he exited the shower and found himself alone, and pounded on his landlady's door.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson admonished as soon as she yanked open the door, but Sherlock was already pushing past her and into 221A, heading for the kitchen.

"I need food," he called, hurrying to her fridge and rummaging through it.

"Really? Oh Sherlock, you're asking for food? Oh that's wonderful! I just pulled out a roast, and-"

"Excellent," Sherlock whirled around to the stove, grabbed the hot dish with two mittens sitting nearby and took off.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson cried again but Sherlock ignored her, hurrying back up to his own flat, sighing in relief at the sound of the shower still running.

He set the table in his kitchen as best he could, pushing aside experiments and his microscope, putting out a single plate and a fork. He would do John the favor of not watching him eat but he would sit near the door, lay on the couch, ready to pounce on him if he tried to leave.

There was no way in hell John was leaving this flat. Not tonight. Not ever.

Another single thought ran through his head and after hesitating for only a second, Sherlock flitted back to the kitchen, creating a cuppa to go with John's dinner, before hearing the water shut off. He hurried back to the couch and dropped down, pretending to be deep in thought as he heard John exit the loo. He closed his eyes and listened to John's footsteps, faltering just outside the door, certainly the smell of the roast intoxicating for someone who was used to not knowing where their next meal would come from. As silence fell, Sherlock listened to John sigh. "Sher-"

"Eat," Sherlock barked.

"Sherlock-"

"Shut up, John. I'm thinking."

He heard a soft grumble of, "Some things never change," and John settling his weight onto the stool in the kitchen. Sherlock stayed silent, listening to John eat somehow soothing and terrifying all at once, trying to think about when the last time John ate was. He couldn't even appreciate seeing this man for the first time in ten years. He was too scared. Their only just reestablished relationship far too fragile.

"Thank you," John's voice filtered into his ears sometime later, his frail body leaning over Sherlock. "That was... good of you."

Sherlock opened his eyes to find John fidgeting near the couch, wearing Sherlock's too large sweatpants and t-shirt, both of which had been snug on him ten years ago when John would spend the night, something they'd laughed over so many times between late night kisses and morning cuddles.

"Hm," Sherlock replied noncommittally.

"Well, I should get going-"

"Who attacked you?" It was misdirection, a distraction from John leaving, a weak attempt but all Sherlock could come up with at the moment, his head too full of images of a shivering, teeth-chattering John Watson trying to survive this cold winter night.

John sighed. "Sherlock-"

"These attacks are becoming more frequent and I need to know-"

"I'm aware of that," John growled. "You think I didn't know that?"

"They're targeting the homeless, John, and if I knew-"

"I know that Sherlock, but I don't know who it was. There two guys, that's all I know. They... came up from behind. I didn't- I wasn't prepared."

Sherlock blinked skeptically.

John shook his head. "Really, I don't. I wish I did so I could stop the bastards-"

A wrap on the door saved the argument that was about to ensue and Sherlock dove from the couch, irrationally worried that if the door were to open without supervision, John would slip out by accident and never make it back inside. He tore open the door to find Detective Inspector Lestrade, standing with his hands on his hips, already annoyed.

"I called," he spat, pushing his way into the flat. "You don't answer your mobile anymore?"

"I was busy," Sherlock replied airily. "What do you want?"

"Another attack down by the docks," Lestrade replied. "I was - oh." He paused, eyes falling on John standing awkwardly in the center of the room. "Er- hi. I'm-"

"Someone who is about to leave," Sherlock said urgently. "I'm busy right now, Lestrade. I'll call you-"

"Who was it?" John suddenly said. "Who was attacked?"

Lestrade's gaze flashed uncomfortably to Sherlock. "Uh-"

"Please," John said, taking a rather unsteady step forward. "I-I know these...people..." His eyelids blinked heavily, body rocking slightly.

Lestrade frowned. "You alright?"

John attempted another step, stumbling forward, and Sherlock caught him, throwing an irritated glance to Lestrade. "A little help?"

John garbled something unintelligible in his arms and Lestrade's eyes widened as he made his way to John's other side. "Did you drug him?"

"Shut up," Sherlock bit out from between clenched teeth, heaving John's body toward the sofa. "Help me get him to the couch."

With effort, they managed to lay him out on his back, tucking a pillow under his already sleeping head. Sherlock righted himself, tugging his shirt down and glanced up to find Lestrade gaping at him incredulously.

Sherlock shrugged. "Shall we?"

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Half a day later, Sherlock dragged himself up the stairs of 221B. He gave a rather languid nod to the man in the black suit that stood just in front of his front door, one of Mycroft's men Sherlock had been sure to have posted before he left, having no idea how long he'd be gone for and wanting to ensure that John stayed put while he was away.

Now here he stood, the man he loved more then anything just on the other side of the door, and taking a deep breath, Sherlock pushed open the door.

To his non-surprise, John sat on the couch, looking more than furious, arms crossed snuggly over his chest, eyes narrowed as far as they would go without closing them altogether. "Nice of you to come back," he spat venomously.

Sherlock ignored the jab and strolled into the kitchen. "Tea?"

The scoff from the main room was impressively loud. "I'm leaving," John barked. "I can't-"

"It was Jenny Lawrence," Sherlock replied conversationally. "She was the one attacked down by the docks. You know her?"

John appeared in the entryway, nodding, eyes wide. "Is she-"

"She'll be okay," Sherlock said as he flicked on the kettle. "A little bruised, nothing like what you endured. We think it's a gang, teaming up to rob the destitute."

John blinked. "Why?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Easy targets. Less likelihood of getting caught. Less likelihood of attacks being reported. They're most likely homeless themselves, feeling rather powerful in numbers, able to take what little these people have with ease. The attack is more of a scare tactic, although if the victim puts up a fight, like I'm sure you did, they won't hesitate to be brutal. I believe there is two, maybe three of them, traveling around the community, attacking when convenient, or when they believe someone has something of value. Money, drugs, a blanket, you know."

John's mouth was hanging open for a good four seconds before he snapped it closed, shaking his head. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I, uh, forgot you do that."

Sherlock frowned. "Do what?"

John rolled his eyes. "You know what. That deducing thing. Even so many years later, it's still impressive."

Sherlock offered a pained, close-mouthed smile. "Mm."

That seemed to snap John back to his original point. "You have to let me go."

"You're not a prisoner," Sherlock grumbled, a bit offended by the insinuation.

John glared. "You're certainly treating me like one."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be so dramatic."

"Yeah, you're right, the drama was always your forte," John growled.

"Stop doing that," Sherlock suddenly burst out, rounding on John. The game had to continue, and Sherlock wished so much that it didn't have to hit so close to the truth. "Stop talking about the past like it was just some good old time for us, John. Like we were just mates hanging out. It wasn't like that and you know it so stop saying it like it's some fond memory we both share. I've been... I was fucking  _waiting_  for you. Waiting for you to come back from war. And now I find out you've been here. For how long, John? How long have you been back?"

John took a small step back, eyes falling slightly with guilt. "I... Sherlock-"

"When, John. Tell me."

Swallowing thickly, John stared at the ground. "About five years. I was invalided home about five years ago."

Even when he knew it was coming, it didn't stop the words from bottoming out Sherlock's stomach and leaving him completely empty. He stared at the too small body of his former partner, eyes unseeing, world flipping upside down.

"Were you-"

"Shot," John nodded. "In the leg. Required surgery. Had a nasty limp for a long while."

Sherlock nodded.

"Well," he growled. "Good to know how little I meant to you."

John's face twisted like he's been slapped. "Sherlock-"

The ringing of Sherlock's phone was the only thing that could have paused this discussion, Sherlock finally feeling like they were getting somewhere. "Sherlock Holmes," he barked into the mobile.

John stepped forward, straining to hear the voice on the other end. Sherlock ignored him. "Thank you," he snapped into the phone before ending the call.

"Another attack?" John inquired.

Sherlock glanced up to see John's blue eyes watching him warily, bottom lip pinched between his teeth.

"If you'd like to know, I'd be willing to make a deal," Sherlock blurted, suddenly realizing he held a rather valuable card John would have difficulty turning down.

John narrowed his eyes. "No," he said flatly. "Forget it."

"If you agree to move in here," Sherlock started anyway. "You can help with the investigation."

"Jesus, way to beat around the bush," John growled. "I can do my own work, thanks."

"Without any resources? Without food or water on a regular basis? You think you'll be able to sustain an investigation like that?"

It was a direct hit. A nasty thing to say really. But Sherlock was beyond patience, beyond boundaries. John had been home for  _five fucking years_. Preferring to live on the streets of London then see Sherlock again. No, his tolerance had just about run out.

But there was no way he'd willingly allow John to go back to that life. Not without a fight.

John bit back a growl. "I've managed just fine, thanks. I don't need your  _help_."

Sherlock stared at his former partner for a long minute.

Then rolled his eyes.

"This isn't charity, John," Sherlock sighed tiredly. "You would be an asset to my investigation. That's all. In return, I would appreciate a piece of mind that you are safe. I'm not asking for anything from you. But you are hurt. You are bruised you're malnourished and sleep-deprived. Those are not things you can fix on the streets. I am simply asking to assist in your healing process. Once you've healed, you can do whatever you like. I won't keep you here if you don't want to be here. If anything,  _I_  need  _your_  help. I need your knowledge of the streets and your experiences living homeless. I need you to help me not go insane wondering if you're safe. I'm hardly asking for anything of you in return."

For once, Sherlock wasn't trying to manipulate anything. He wasn't lying or faking or pushing. He was being honest.

John stayed silent for long enough to make Sherlock concerned before he finally agreed. "Alright. Fine."

Sherlock nodded once. "Good. There's a bedroom upstairs Mycroft insists I keep fully furnished incase our parents come to visit. You can sleep there."

John shifted on his feet. "Sherlock, I-"

"Stop," Sherlock said coolly. "Just because I'm asking you stay here doesn't mean I want to talk to you. Truthfully, I don't want to hear what you have to say. It's been ten years and I just... there really isn't much to say. You made your choices and… that's it. We will keep it strictly professional. We will work together. We will stop these attacks on your friends. But that's it. I don't want to talk to you about anything else. Understood?"

Looking for all the world like he'd been slapped, John cringed slightly but nodded.

Sherlock's reply was a sharp head-tilt of his own, before spinning round and storming off to his room, ignoring the tears stinging his eyes and focusing instead on a long dormant experiment in the back of his closet.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

The next two weeks were something of a blur.

When he wasn't avoiding John in the flat, Sherlock was focusing on things he'd never worried about in the past. Keeping the fridge fully stocked, the dishes completely clean, the loo spotless. He concerned himself with clean sheets and laundry, grocery stores and shopping for clothes in John's size, providing for a man he hardly wanted anything to do with. It seemed silly. In his most private moments, Sherlock recognized the lunacy of this. He wasn't speaking to John, with the exception of the occasional update on the case, which there hadn't been in two solid weeks, and yet here he was picking out shirts and jeans and bloody boxers for the man living in the upstairs room of his flat. A man he once loved more then anything on this earth. A man he'd been planning a life with for ten years. A man who was supposed to be his. His soldier and partner and lover and who knew, maybe even husband. But instead here they were. Living in silence. Living together while being completely alone.

But Sherlock was holding his ground. After five years of radio silence, five years in which Sherlock had happily continued living his life, continued foolishly believing that no matter where John was, one day he would come back to him. One day they would be together. One day they would find each other again and start their life together.

And all that time, John had only been blocks away, barely surviving, never bothering to call Sherlock, to find him, to bloody ask for help. It was one thing to be hard-headed. It was a whole other thing to risk your life every day for the sake of saving face.

John didn't trust him. John didn't trust him five years ago to accept him as he was when he came back. John didn't trust him to take care of him. John didn't trust him to love him.

It was enough for Sherlock. Enough to make him question everything he'd ever believed about his relationship with John. Enough to make him question the man himself.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

"I was going to tell you."

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, his socked feet sliding against the wood at the abruptness of the movement. He'd just arrived back home from the store, dutifully ignoring his flatmate sitting on the couch.

He sucked in a silent breath and waited.

"That I was home, I mean. I - I know I should have told you," John murmured from behind him.

He fell silent after that and Sherlock ventured a head turn, not wanting John to stop talking. Needing so desperately to know. "Why didn't you?" he offered over his shoulder.

After weeks of silence, curiosity was getting the better of Sherlock's fury. And this was the first sign of John moving to talk about it.

He wasn't going to pass up the chance to hear him out.

A whoosh of breath came from behind him as John exhaled a heavy sigh. "I...I don't know."

Sherlock whirled around, having just about enough of this. "Yes you do," Sherlock threw back, standing his ground and staring down the man on the couch that had aged ten years since the last time he'd seen him.

Sherlock hadn't looked directly at him in two weeks. Two weeks had done John a world of good.

The bruising and swelling had gone down. The sharpness of his bones was fading under thicker skin. He was filling out his clothes again. He looked… good.

Damn good.

Too good.

John ran an unsteady hand through his hair, gaze falling from Sherlock's face to the floor, face crumbling to a look of exhaustion and complete resignation. "Sherlock," he mumbled.

"Tell me," Sherlock pressed, never taking his eyes off that blonde head.

Rubbing an anxious hand down his thigh, John kept his eyes trained on the floor. "Do you remember graduation day Sherlock?"

While in the comfort of not being looked at, Sherlock rolled his eyes, making his way to his chair and settling in, because obviously John was going to make this rather painful.

"Yes, John," Sherlock tried to reply without being flippant. "I remember graduation."

John snapped his gaze back to Sherlock, narrowing his eyes. "Don't be a dick, Sherlock. Because if you remembered graduation day like I do, then you wouldn't be asking me stupid fucking questions."

Sherlock stared for a long moment, taking in those deep blue eyes boring into him, the faintest trace of a sparkle in them again. He tilted his head to acquiesce the point and waved his hand at John to continue.

John blinked, seeming to weigh his options before dropping his eyes. "You were so unbelievably happy that day, Sherlock," he murmured to Sherlock's feet. "I've never seen you so happy."

"Well, secondary school wasn't exactly enjoyable for me," Sherlock replied cautiously, clutching his fingers around the chair arms.

John snorted. "I know," he said softly. "That's my point; you were happy. So happy to be moving on with your life, to be done with our crap school and on to London and uni where I knew without a doubt you would thrive."

"I wanted to do that with you," Sherlock murmured. "You would have thrived here too."

It's immediately obvious that was the completely wrong thing to say as John's blue gaze narrowed down to slits, his just recently healing face scrunching into a furious glare. "No. I wouldn't have."

"John, I would've helped-"

"That is exactly why I didn't tell you."

Sherlock gaped for a full ten seconds before shaking his head. "No," he said, "no you weren't this proud when we were eighteen. I don't believe you."

John frowned. "Proud?"

"Yes!" Sherlock railed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "You're so hell bent on not needing anyone's help-"

"Hang on," John said with a wave of his hand. "That isn't at all what I was saying."

"Well it's pretty clear that's exactly how you feel," Sherlock grumbled, falling heavily back against his chair.

"Sherlock, I-" John started, then paused, eyes skittering across the floor. "I wanted to go into the army. I really did. That decision had nothing to do with you and I. It was a decision I made for myself and I'm still glad I went. But I didn't...I should have had a plan for if anything happened to me. I didn't think- maybe it was childish but if I had planned to be injured and invalided home, maybe I-"

"You couldn't have planned for that," Sherlock replied softly, because it was completely true and ridiculous that John would blame himself for something like that. Because Sherlock hadn't planned for it either. Because Sherlock believed wholeheartedly that John would be fine. Because Sherlock's heart couldn't take the pain of believing anything else.

John's eyes found his again, lips pinned in a thin line, swallowing hard. "I saw you once," he murmured, lips twisting slightly.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "What?"

"A few weeks after I got out of hospital," John continued quietly. "You were rushing down the street, pushing through a crowd, hollering at people to move." He huffed a soft laugh. "You looked like a bloody lunatic, honestly."

Sherlock didn't laugh. This whole thing was far from funny.

"And I was on the other side of the street, limping along like some cripple," John muttered, mouth and eyes dropping into a pained, self-loathing grimace. "I couldn't even...I wouldn't have been able to run after you. Chase you down, tell you I'm home. I wanted... I wanted to be healed before I saw you again. I didn't want you to have to take care of me. Come to my rescue like you always did when we were boys."

"Why not?" Sherlock whispered. "Why couldn't I take care of you? I would never coddle you, John, or make you feel worthless. I would-"

"That's exactly how I would have felt," John replied sharply. "Even if you didn't mean it like that, I would have felt... like I wasn't anything but a problem for you. You would have put your life on hold for me, and I couldn't...I will never ask you to do that. I didn't and still don't want you to do that."

Sherlock stayed quiet.

"I wanted to heal," John continued softly. "I wanted to be healthy before I saw you again. No limp, no bandages, no casts. I wanted to be in good condition, to be able to move on with our life together. To be a partner to you and have everything we always talked about." The last word broke as John's face contorted. "But an army pension isn't much in London," he murmured. "And I don't even... I don't know when it got so bad, but it did and one day I found myself wondering where I'd sleep for the night, no friends or family to turn to and pennies in my bank account. I don't know...I can't say when it began but after that... I couldn't face you, Sherlock. I couldn't come back to you like that, needing so much from you. You would have dropped it all and ruined your life for me."

"You're right," Sherlock replied coolly. "I probably would have. Because I fucking needed you, John. I've needed you this entire time, all these years and you weren't there for me. There was never a question about me being there for you but what about the other way round? Could you have stopped thinking about yourself for one second to consider that-"

"I was too broken to take care of you!"

"I was broken  _without_  you!"

John sat back as though he'd been slapped, eyes wide.

Sherlock sighed heavily, dropping into a chair at the table. "I missed you so much, John," he breathed, feeling the weight of the words on his tongue. "I wouldn't have cared if you'd returned missing an arm or leg. It wouldn't have mattered to me. I still would've... I still..." He couldn't say it. He couldn't admit it.

John blinked. "Sherlock I-"

The shrill ring of Sherlock's phone broke through the stillness, both men jumping back in a swell of panic, wide eyes finding each other.

Sherlock was the first to relax, shaking his head slightly and reaching his hand into his pocket. "Sorry," he muttered, tugging the mobile out to find an unknown number lighting up the screen. He glared down at the offending electronic, swearing to the heavens above if this is a solicitor call interrupting the one conversation Sherlock had been aching to have with John Watson, someone was going to get a vicious earful. He tapped the green button and raised the phone to his ear. "Sherlock Holmes," he barked, metaphorically rising up on his toes, preparing to hurl insults as soon as the caller made themselves known.

"M-Mister Holmes?" The meek voice came from the other end of the line and Sherlock's anger dissipated immediately.

He knew that voice. He'd heard it many times before.

He made it a point to remember his network's voices in case of times like these. Payphones were ideal for dropping information when an in-person meeting wasn't possible.

"Billy? What is it?"

"I…" Bill coughed into the phone, wheezing with effort to contain it.

"Where are you?" Sherlock demanded, already throwing on his coat and preparing to rush from the flat, already mapping the quickest routes in his head to the most likely places his homeless junkie confidant could be.

"The House," Bill wheezed. "I'm sorry. Just...Please. Hurry."

The line went dead but that wasn't concerning. He'd gotten all the information he needed.

"Where are you going?" John's curious voice came from behind him and Sherlock bit back the pang of guilt in his gut. Billy needed him right now. He didn't have a choice. John would be here when he got home. They could talk then. They'd waited ten years as it was. Another few hours wouldn't kill him.

"A friend is in trouble," Sherlock muttered, doing up his buttons of his belstaff and wrapping his scarf snugly around his neck, pulling his gloves from his pocket, replacing the empty space with his phone. "A long standing connection has been hurt."

"A... Someone in your network?" John was suddenly moving toward him, eyes wide.

Sherlock nodded absentmindedly, scrubbing a gloved hand through his hair, running through his list of things he needed for an incident like this, tapping his inside coat pocket for the plasters and antiseptic he kept at all times on his person. The homeless didn't have access to things like this, although he had a sinking feeling that this wouldn't be enough for Billy. Not this time.

"Who is it?" John demanded, moving to stand in Sherlock's way of the door, as though he may run off without answering. Which he couldn't deny had crossed his mind.

"Bill Wiggins," Sherlock replied, raising an eyebrow to silently ask if that name rang any bells, simultaneously requesting that John get out of his way.

John shook his head. "Don't know him, but I bet I could help."

Deciding his retort wouldn't be welcomed when a determined John Watson was standing in the doorway, body drawing up to his full height, Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "John," he started, trying to convey without saying it that he would prefer him to stay in the house, safely away from any dangers, stay where Sherlock knew he was, knew where he'd be when he came home. To finish this damn conversation they'd waited too long to have.

"We had a deal, Sherlock," John shot back. "I'm going, so you can complain about it or you can shut up and let me help. I'm back in somewhat good health. I can be an asset."

Sherlock huffed to the ceiling dramatically, conveying as much irritation as possible.

"I lived that life for years, Sherlock," John replied, "I can probably handle it better then you can."

That caught Sherlock's attention. He snapped his gaze back to meet John's now mischievous grin. He raised an eyebrow. "Is that a challenge?"

John smirked. "You bet your arse it is."

And how on earth could Sherlock resist a challenge? A challenge from a newly healed, well-fed John Watson who no longer held sunken cheeks and thinning muscles. A challenge from an old friend, standing here with a healthy glow in his face and a smirk playing on his lips, no longer fragile and skittish but ready. Ready to take on the world. A challenge from someone he'd finally said the words he'd needed to say to and suddenly the weight of it all was lifting.

Something had shifted between them. In the span of a single conversation, something had changed. Clicked into place? Corrected itself?

Sherlock couldn't be sure.

But just like that, Sherlock's concerns faded away. John could handle it. And John obviously wouldn't be taking no for an answer anyway.

Sherlock straightened his shoulders and fixed John with an irritated glare. "Get your coat."

 

 

* * *

 

 

The House was a not-so-secret name for the crack den Bill Wiggins frequented more often the Sherlock would care to recognize. Rotting around the edges, paint peeling off in strips, it looked as though surely termites would be descending upon it at any moment and finish it off. The ugliness of the outside was nothing compared to scattered, strung out bodies that littered the floor on the inside. Two floors worth of dirty mattresses and used needles and junkies sleeping it off or shooting up, The House was one of horrors in Sherlock's book.

He cringed to think of John ever being somewhere like this. He'd gotten used to his network crawling out of places like this but for the life of him he couldn't picture John as an addict. "Did you ever..." he started as they pulled up in the taxi to The House, unable to complete the sentence entirely.

"Never," John murmured. "Not even once."

Sherlock relaxed slightly. They made their way up the rotting steps and into the front hall, both heads on a swivel already, searching for the injured figure of Bill Wiggins.

"Upstairs?" John murmured beside him and Sherlock nodded, ignoring the scattered addicts lying in strange positions on the steps.

Creeping quietly along the dark corridor, peeking in each open door for familiar faces, Sherlock finally spotted a man huddling in a corner, dressed in a familiar dark blue coat, arms clutched around his stomach.

"Billy," Sherlock called quietly, making his way to his injured friend.

The figure slowly raised his head, the bloodied, bruised face of Bill Wiggins coming eye to eye with Sherlock. "Mister H-Holmes," he murmured as Sherlock reached for him. "I'm sorry."

"Well, well," a voice came from the doorway, "the rumors are true then."

Still with a hand on Bill's arm, Sherlock turned to meet a rather ugly looking man standing in the doorway, eyeing Sherlock and John.

"I mean I'd heard you'd taken one of us in, but him? Of all of us, you picked him?" The brute took a step inside, two almost identical figures following him, and Sherlock glanced at John to his side, assuring himself that he was in fact near and all right.

John, for his part, looked furious, his hands already balling into fists at his sides.

"Good to see you again, mate," the man grinned sickly at John. "How're the ribs?"

Sherlock bit back a growl. "You're the gang, aren't you? The ones attacking these innocent people-"

"Innocent!" The man cackled. "Oh please,  _Mister Holmes_ , you know better then that. It's a warzone out here in the streets. You do what you need to survive. Although, not all of us get the special  _Mister Holmes_  treatment like this one, yeah? Or that one behind you? Not everyone gets money and food and phones and a nice little room to live in, now do they?"

"I'm sorry," Bill whispered into his ear. Sherlock gave his arm a gentle squeeze. This wasn't his fault.

"Now, here's what we're going to do," the man continued. "You're going to empty those pretty, bulging pockets of yours, and hand over your mobile."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Actually, I'm not going to do anything like that."

"Oh dear me," the man feigned concern, pressing his fingertips to his chest. "Did you want to see your new flatmate get the shit kicked out of him instead?" He flicked his eyes to John and licked his lips. Sherlock bristled. John shook with rage.

"Fuck off," he spat, moving an inch in front of Sherlock.

The man's eyes widened. "OH!" he said happily, hands clapping together. "Are you two- oh my word, are you two a  _thing_? Oh, that's so romantic! He saves you from the harrowing streets of London and you two fall in  _love_?!"

"I said," John raged, "fuck off."

"And why on earth would I do that?" The man grinned wickedly. "There's three of us and two of you. Or well, three if you count the one we already did a number on. What makes you think you're so much better then us that you get the nice little flat in the middle of London with this pretty boy?"

"Look, I'm truly sorry your stupid, strung-out brain cannot understand my work or my methods," Sherlock sighed, "but him living with me has nothing to do with-"

The man took three large steps, wrapping a hand into Sherlock's coat and forcefully pulling him forward. "What did you just say to me?"

From this close, Sherlock could see just how blown his pupils were, and large his body was, calculating quickly just what he would need to do to maneuver himself out of this position, when something in the man's free hand caught his eye.

The dull, dirty point of what could only be described as a shank was raised to Sherlock's neck, pushing bluntly against his ceratoid artery.

"Answer me," the man demanded. "What did you just call me?"

The fist Sherlock could see coming out of the corner of his eye somehow did not hit his face, but the man holding him, forcing him to drop the knife and stagger backward. Sherlock had a split second to see John's furious figure lung at the bigger man, taking him down to the ground and landing several blows before any of the other thugs could spring into action.

And suddenly it was like the world was moving in slow motion. He could see it, see John on the floor on top of one man while two others barreled toward him, unprepared, unprotected, wholly exposed. Sherlock was just about to grab for John and drag him away from the larger bodies about to take him down, when suddenly more bodies were bursting into the room, shouts being called, demands being made, but Sherlock couldn't hear or see anyone else besides the short blond man on the floor, in the thick of it, entirely unsafe. He lunged, grabbing for John's shoulders and pulling at him, dragging him away from the scuffle and to safety near Bill's still shuddering frame.

"Stop!" Sherlock cried as John fought against his grip. "John, please stop!"

It was like cutting the strings of a puppet, as John's entire body wilted, whirling around and burying itself as deeply into Sherlock as it would go, face pressing into his neck and arms encircling his waist.

That shift, the one he'd felt earlier, was now locking itself in place. Was now forcing them to reconcile things they'd forced themselves to ignore, tried to hide for weeks and now… it was all for not.

Because this. This right here. This was Sherlock's. What he wanted. What he _needed_.

"It's alright," Sherlock murmured, holding John to his chest like he'd longed to do for far weeks-  _years_. "It's alright." They weren't words only meant for John but for Sherlock too, trying to calm himself, remind himself that John was safe, alive, not injured or hurt.

Sometime later, Sherlock would recognize the new bodies being the police force and Lestrade's booming voice the one making the demands for everyone to stand down, but he wouldn't be able to make all of those connections while he held the love of his life in his arms and rocked him back to calm.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

After what could have been days sitting at the police station, Sherlock bundled John into a cab and rode home in silence, sides pressed against each other, bodies as close as they could get.

Sherlock was tired.

So damn tired.

So sick of being angry, so sick of being worried, so sick of not knowing what the fucking hell was going to happen.

God, he was exhausted.

John's frame stiffened slightly as they rounded the corner to Baker Street and somehow, with that small movement, Sherlock knew he was in for an earful when they got back.

And somehow, Sherlock wanted to bypass all of that.

And get to the good part.

The part where they stopped not saying what they weren't saying, stop pretending that bone crushing hug in the crack den didn't mean everything, stop choosing to be angry instead of choosing to be happy.

As they got upstairs, John went to the kitchen and began banging around furiously, snapping open then slamming drawers and doors shut, flicking the kettle on with such vigor the pot wobbled on the stove.

After shrugging off his coat and tossing it onto the back of a chair, Sherlock watched from the doorway of the kitchen, eyes narrowed, arms crossed, simply waiting. Waiting for the inevitable explosion of John Watson's fury. He watched the muscles in John's back contract and bunch with every movement, his arms flexing tellingly, which was hard to be concerned by since those muscles only a few weeks ago had been non-existent.

"Well?" Sherlock requested finally when it became clear this could go on all night if he didn't put a stop to it.

"Well, what?" John tossed back without turning, hands gripping the counter in front of him.

"What do you have to say?" Sherlock ventured, leaning against the doorframe.

"What would you like me to say?" John demanded, turning on him, face red as a cherry, fists clenched at his sides. "Would you like to hear me say they are right? That you have no right to take me in and not them?"

"No," Sherlock replied flatly. "I'd prefer not to hear you say any of that."

John glared. "Of course you wouldn't," he spat. "You never want to hear it. I'm no better then any of them, Sherlock. I'm not anything special. And you just storm in there, almost get your bloody neck swiped with a fucking knife and-"

"It wasn't even close to hitting me," Sherlock shot back. "Addicts have notoriously slow reflexes and-"

"I don't care!" John railed. "I don't care if they are fast as lightning or slow as molasses, the guy had a fucking  _knife_  to your  _throat_!"

"Well I'm  _sorry_  that someone I knew was in danger and needed  _help_ , John," Sherlock spat back. "I'm sorry that that's so difficult for you to understand-"

"That is so not what I'm talking about and you know it!"

"Then what are you talking about John? Please enlighten me, because-"

"You could have been killed!"

"Oh, please. There is no chance that I-"

"SHERLOCK!" John cried, eyes the size of dinner plates, hands outstretched. "YOU COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED!"

"And why would you care about that, John?" Sherlock railed right back, pushing, shoving John to the inevitable conclusion because they weren't flatmates, they weren't friends, they weren't bloody co-workers. They were John and Sherlock. They  _belonged_  together. Fuck everything else. This was it. After so much wasted time, this was Sherlock's moment. "Why would you care? It would get me out of your hair, wouldn't it? It would keep me from making you stay here, right? The one thing you don't want to do? It would get me out of your life, so why would you even care if I were to d-"

"Do not say it-"

"Die? Why would you care John? I'm such a pest, such an inconvenience for you, giving you a home and a job and a fucking life again, I know it's just the worst for you, so why would you give a flying fuck if I-"

"BECAUSE I LOVE YOU, YOU FUCKING PRAT!" John screeched, outstretched hands now wrapping into the front of Sherlock's shirt, face closer than it had been in ten years, and Sherlock's body physically wilted into the touch, bending at the knees and wrapping his hands around the backs of John's thighs.

"Good," he growled because he knew, of course he knew, and he was so tired of waiting, of playing this godforsaken game of tiptoeing around John's hard headedness and pride and stubbornness and fuck it all to hell.

The small whimper that escaped John's lips as Sherlock lifted him, wrapping his legs around Sherlock's waist and locking his arms around Sherlock's neck, made Sherlock's heart turn over in his chest as it beat harder against his ribs, John's finally sparkling blue eyes staring down at him with such fervor it made him ache.

"Sherlock," John breathed only inches from his lips, fingers finding their way into the curls at the back of Sherlock's head, tightening their grip to tilt Sherlock's face up a bit. "Sherlock, do you-"

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "God, yes, of course of  _course_."

And it should have been ridiculous. It should have been all kinds of awkward and strange and a bit emasculating for John to be wrapped around him like this but god, it wasn't, it wasn't at all, nothing was off about it, nothing about it felt anything but right as John descended upon Sherlock's mouth, pressing their lips together feverishly, teeth bumping slightly, tongues slipping out and touching, it was nothing but right right _right_.

And John was kissing him like he'd never kissed anyone in his life, and clinging to him with every inch of his body, his arms wrapped tight, fingers dug in deep into silky ringlets, legs squeezing at the thighs and hooked at the ankles, holding on for dear life, making soft little noises into Sherlock's mouth.

"I love you, John," Sherlock murmured against his lips. "Can I-"

"Yes," John groaned clutching impossibly tighter, as though afraid Sherlock would put him down if he didn't. Like that was even the faintest of possibilities right at this moment.

"Jesus,  _finally_  you stubborn arse," Sherlock breathed, making his way to his own bedroom, the effort slowing with every kiss John planted on his lips, obscuring his view, though Sherlock couldn't complain when John's mouth was finally on his again.

"I'm sorry," John whimpered, tongue trailing over Sherlock's neck. "You know why."

"I know why," Sherlock agreed, arching his neck to give John better access and peering over his shoulder to avoid any walls. "I hate it but I know why."

"I couldn't ask you-"

"Yes you could have," Sherlock whispered fiercely. "You could have but I understand why you didn't and I cannot talk about it anymore. I've thought about it nonstop for weeks and I can't, I  _can't_  anymore John. Can we just please,  _please_  can we agree that this is no longer your life and my life but  _our_  life? Please?"

John nodded hastily against his neck, mouth finding his pulse point. "Yes," he whispered heatedly against Sherlock's skin.

Sherlock knew that wouldn't be the end of it, knew they still had mountains to climb, but still. Standing here, holding the man he'd loved since he was a boy, about to make love to him for the first time in ten bloody years, about to give him his entire world again, about to take on this man's entire world, god it was everything. It was terrifying and beautiful and beyond perfect because it was them and just like them to make it this difficult on themselves and wait this bloody long to make it happen.

"Yes," John murmured again, lavishing Sherlock's neck with wet kisses, lips becoming more frantic as he bucked his hips against Sherlock's rapidly filling erection. "God, yes."

"Take your shirt off," Sherlock demanded, fingers sliding from John's thighs to his arse and squeezing, emphasizing his eagerness, that now they were both disappearing into a land of urgent lust and needs that have sat dormant for too long between them, that have been begging to be let out and be made known and put to use, that living under a roof together and  _not_  doing this was no longer bloody  _on_.

John's hands all but flew to the collar of his black t-shirt, tugging it up and over his head. His two round dog tags fell free from the wrap of the fabric, hanging heavy at the center of the long chain they dangled from, settling against his breastbone. His bare chest sat at the perfect height to Sherlock's mouth and Sherlock took advantage, planting an open mouthed kiss on John's chest between the chains, laving his tongue against the warm skin of his lover's body. John moaned, pushing into the touch, tossing his head back as Sherlock moved to one of his nipples, taking it between his teeth and tugging.

"Christ, Sherlock-" John choked, fingers digging almost painfully into his scalp. "Fuck- take me to bed you bastard."

Sherlock smirked against John's hot skin, taking his time to move to the other nipple, giving it just as much attention, swirling his tongue around its pink peak and flicking against it.

" _Sherlock_ ," John breathed in his ear, though to be fair John was counteracting his own demand by clutching harder to Sherlock's body.

Sherlock laughed as they entered his bedroom, laying John down in the sheets, hands reaching for the flies of his jeans.

John was quicker, grasping desperately at the buttons of Sherlock's shirt, clawing them open in a rush, hands scrabbling for purchase on his bare skin. Sherlock assisted with the last few, tearing his shirt from his arms just in time to catch himself on his palms as John grabbed his shoulders and pulled him down. He hovered over John's half naked form, reaching for his soldier's lips, when John's calloused fingers wrapped around each of his nipples and pulled.

" _Fuck_ \- John-" Sherlock gasped breathlessly, each tender nerve-ending sending shivers down every inch of his body, head dropping forward to watch John's skilled fingers work.

"Mm," John hummed, dragging his index finger up Sherlock's chest to his chin and guiding him back to his mouth. Sherlock obliged, bending to capture John's unbelievably soft lips again, sweeping his tongue into his mouth and licking gently, tasting every inch he could reach. The kiss wasn't gentle, both biting and sucking roughly, hands running all over each other's bodies, feeling and exploring and grabbing and taking. It was a battle getting each other's trousers off, both wrestling each other out of the remainder of their clothing, each taking too much interest in the other getting starkers as soon as possible.

Sherlock won in the end, hand wrapping around John's already thick cock, hard and leaking between his legs.

" _Jesus_ -" John gasped into Sherlock's mouth, hips bucking into the touch. "Fuh- oh fuck me. Christ Sherlock, fuck me."

It was a filthy demand that would have made Sherlock laugh ten years ago, but now...now it made him faster. Now it made him desperate to comply and eager to couple and goddamnit if he wasn't inside John in the next few seconds he may explode, or John could disappear and this could all be some horrible bad dream. He scrambled for the lube in his bedside table, flipping the cap open urgently like his life depended on it.

The preparation was rushed, John squirming and demanding and begging and pleading underneath him and Sherlock couldn't help panting with every move, but even with three fingers buried inside his lover, Sherlock could still take a moment to appreciate John's desperation, and sort out exactly where it came from.

This was John, after so many weeks - so many  _years_ \- finally getting past his stubborn, proud heart, terrified to rely on anyone, terrified to give himself to anyone, _finally_  giving in, accepting, trusting Sherlock to take care of him. This was a two way street, Sherlock needing to be taken care of just as badly, and this, he could feel in his bones, was the moment they both accepted that. They both silently agreed their stubbornness was worthless if it meant they had to live without each other and it wouldn't do any longer. It was all of this or nothing at all and Sherlock refused the latter as an option to begin with.

And finally, as he slid into John's body, the man beneath him groaning, arching his back, the quickness of their movements slowed immediately, bodies grinding to a halt and needy pleasures dulling just enough to smooth the frantic motions into something lovely and calm and tender. Still wrapped around him like a vine, John's hitched breaths caught in his ear like recognition. Like everything Sherlock had been thinking and realizing was seeping out of his pores and into John's, connecting them deeply in a silent understanding. That they'd both been trying to live without the other all this time without realizing how much better they were together. And the quick, dirty fuck Sherlock had been certain they were about to have suddenly became a slow, love-making session as he began to rock his hips, John's mouth breathing hotly against his shoulder and arms locked around his neck, legs splayed open as far as they could go.

"Oh, god," John moaned softly, grip tightening, thighs suddenly snapping closed, holding Sherlock deeply inside him. "Oh...my god, Sherlock."

Turning his head and pressing a kiss to John's neck and ear, Sherlock groaned heatedly as John's heels dug into his arse. "John," he breathed. "John I- Christ, I love you."

The choked sob of a response made Sherlock freeze. He pulled back slightly to find John's beautiful blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears, mouth pressed into a hard line, face pinched with effort not to cry.

"John?" Sherlock breathed, panic seizing his chest, as he went to move, terrified he'd hurt him.

"No!" John cried, holding him tighter to him. "No I just... God, I missed you," he breathed, reaching for a kiss, blinking finally and letting the tears fall down over his temples. "I missed you so much."

The next broken cry came from Sherlock's lips against John's, his heart swelling with so much love for the man beneath him it ached, having not realized how much he truly missed his John until this very moment, thrusting his hips into John with more purpose, body desperate to get as close as possible. "John," he breathed, body pulling taut as he stroked in and out of his partner, grasping at him to get closer. John clung to him, holding on as they rocked with each other, bodies touching at every point they could manage, neither one of them barreling to orgasm but just this. Just needing this. Needing to be connected. Needing to know the other was there. Forever. No more waiting. No more fighting against their needs to be together. No more games. Just this.

Together.

Always.

And later, after John had fallen to pieces under his touch, sobbing his release and love in complete abandon, Sherlock wrapped him up under the covers, pulling him to his chest and sighing, carding gentle fingers through his blonde fringe.

"I need you," Sherlock murmured, dropping gentle kisses to his forehead. "More than you've ever needed me. Please know that."

The sleepy head on his pectoral shook his head. "No," John murmured groggily. "Not more. The same. Equal."

Sherlock grinned, giving him a soft squeeze, a tiny thrill running up his spine. Equal. He could agree to that. They needed each other the same amount, whether they could both see it or not, it was the truth. After ten, miserable, lonely years, Sherlock finally held the one thing he'd always wanted to his heart and breathed deeply.

He settled back, wondering if his life may actually be starting right this very moment.

"Love you," John mumbled into his chest.

Sherlock smiled. "Go to sleep, John."

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING!!! Truthfully, I had a bit of a time with this one, so any feedback is greatly appreciated!
> 
> Next week will be some deliciously smutty teenlock so get excited ;) Requests/Prompts and/or questions/comments are more then welcome here or on my [tumblr](http://mssmithlove1.tumblr.com) page! THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!!! XOXO!


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